Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Schwings
by livengoo
Summary: Sam and Dean don't agree about where to find leads. But they sure agree about what to do once they find 'em!


Title: Snapshots: Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Schwings  
Writer: Livengoo  
Rated: PG-13 for language and tasteless collectibles  
Summary: Sam and Dean debate where to find leads, and what to do when the unexpected DOES pan out.  
Credit where due: The op ed page of May 17, 2007 has a fun editorial for those who like relics and military bits and pieces, so to speak. Collect-Me-Not is worth the time even if it wasn't begging to be an SPN fic.

And thanks to Ampy who always urges me on. GRIN.

* * *

It was easy to tell when Dean was being watched. He fidgeted. He squirmed. Even in a diner booth like this one, there'd be times that Sam would look up to see Dean wriggling his shoulders, twisting his body. Sam had even seen him writhe like a cat on a warm sidewalk. He, thankfully, was more subtle about it than his brother.

When he was being watched, he itched. Nothing spectacular. No hives. No writhing. Just . . . itched.

There it was again. Sam scratched at the spot between his eyes. Wrinkled his nose. Scratched harder. And finally peeked up over the top of his paper.

Hazel green eyes were fixed on him, peering over the top of a lurid copy of Weekly World News. Dean blinked and flipped his paper back up, hiding behind it.

Sam sighed, raised his paper again and sat back in his booth, trying to ignore his brother. He slid his hand under the edge of the crisp paper and groped across the diner's formica table for his cup of coffee. He found warm fingers wrapped around a cup that he was damn sure was his own. "Hey!"

"What?"

"Miiine!" Sam hissed, drawing out the "i". It was quite a feat for a word that had no sibilants and he was proud of it.

Dean snapped his paper down in half and scowled. "Prove it."

Sam narrowed his eyes. Then smiled grimly. "It's got sugar in it."

"Savage." Dean slowly drew the cup towards himself. Sniffed at it. "Are you sure this one's got sugar in it? I wouldn't want to drink spoiled coffee."

"Take a taste." Sam's smile widened into a tooth-bared grimace. "Dare ya."

Dean picked the heavy, china mug up hesitantly. "I always put my cup right . . ." He pointed to a spot in front of his plate. "This was there."

"Go on. You wanted that cup. Drink it."

Dean curled a disdainful lip and put the cup back down, grabbing the nearly empty cup still on the table. "You're being ridiculous. Why'd you start this stupid fight?"

"Why . . ." Sam nearly spluttered, stopped himself. Fumed for a moment. "What IS your problem? If you just LOOKED instead of hiding behind your paper -"

"And yeah, about that!" Dean tapped the back of Sam's paper. "Why the hell are you READING that rag?"

"Rag?" Sam gave his paper a peremptory rattle. "RAG? Dean. This is the May 17 copy of the New York Times! It's the Nation's Paper. This is THE paper of record for national news and it's America's source for . . . international . . ." Sam trailed off, frowning, as Dean held up a hand like a sock puppet, and mimicked Sam's words in a tiny, squeaky voice. "source for international blah blah blah blah."

"Dean. It's the news."

One eyebrow went up. "Whose news?"

"Didn't we just go through this?"

"That thing's just telling what politicians are doing. They shouldn't even call it news, Sam, it's just a repeat of every stupid thing they did before. Pick a date, there's a war, somebody's calling for lower taxes. Somebody else wants better schools. The French are snooty and the Russians are shits. What's new? It's been the same old crap for the last hundred years. At LEAST!"

Sam let him talk himself out, leaning back with his arms crossed. "Are you done?"

"Why? You want me to keep going?"

"Nooo, I think it's safe to say that's the last thing I want right now." Sam gave a dramatic shudder. "Though I'm thinking you'd be a hell of a lot of fun on O'Reilly."

"That pussy? Why don't they just tell him to shut up?" Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Asshole."

"Gotta agree with you there. But man, stuff on the world stage, it's important. Even for us, if you think about it."

"Sam, if I EVER run into some asshole world leader's ghost, man, that's it. I'm out of here. I'll give myself up to the feds the day I see that."

"It's more than that, Dean. It's . . .look. What happens around the world comes home, y'know? Soldier's bringing home spirits and ghosts? Or . . . "

"Or what? Real estate law in Westchester County stirs up the restless dead? Restless dead bankers maybe."

Sam snickered and shook his head. "Yeah, maybe. Even so . . ."

Dean gave his own paper a rattle, drawing the eye to a garish display of alien babies and possessed, desperate housewives. "Dude, give it up. My paper can take yours four falls out of four."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh bull. That make that stuff up. You know it, too."

Dean slouched back happily, flipping through his paper. "You know as well as I do, seed of truth in any lie. And Sammy, for what we do?" He shot a smug look over the top of his paper, "for what we do, this IS the Nation's Paper."

The only possible answer was a dismissive snort and that's what Sam delivered. "You're so full of shit."

He should have known better. Dean sat up, a gleam in his eyes. "You willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

"Like that means anything? Any money we bet belongs to . . .who was it this time? Ian Gomm?"

"Last time I let YOU pick the names," grumbled Dean. "Shitawful punk band."

"They're not so bad. And the mullet names were getting old. So, we playing for Ian's bucks?"

"Nah, you're right." Dean scowled, tapping out a drum beat on the table. "Cause our only other money's from my hustling and what's the fun of winning my own cash?"

"Oh, OH, like I don't win MY share?"

"You don't." Dean shrugged. "If there was a pot for Minesweeper or debate maybe, but push comes to shove, Sammy?"Sam opened his mouth to argue and shut it because really, when he had a point Dean had a point. Finally raised shrugged. "The car could use a good wash and wax?"

"Full detail job. I find a good lead, you do it, You find one . . ."

"No, no no no no." Sam shook his head and grinned wolfishly. "I never argued you couldn't find a lead in that rag. Whether it pans out or not, that's a whole different wash and wax. But you were betting I can't find one in the Times."

"Yeah?" Dean tilted his head back and the bright, early spring sun light put a wolfish spark in his eye. He smiled wide and bright. "Okay. Deal. You find one good lead in that piece a shit paper and I won't make ya clean the car like you should."

"I should?" Sam screwed up his face in consternation.

"Yep. Driver does the engine. Shotgun -"

Dean yelped when Sam kicked his ankle under the table. "So full of crap."

"Ow! That's TWO car washes, bitch!"

"Deal!"

"Deal!"

Sam snapped his paper up, armed and ready. He heard the rattle of cheap newsprint across the diner table as Dean came to arms as well. Coffee cooled between them and there was no rattle of cheap stainless steel on equally cheap china - not from their table at least. Just the sound of thin, grayish paper pages turning, being folded back, and concentration so intense it almost made a sound itself.

"Hmm." Sam stopped 'hmmm'ing as he felt the itch between his brows. Scratched.

"Heh." He almost peeked over the top of his paper but his father's years of training gave him the rigid self-control to keep scanning the Times.

And then, "Huh." It only took one paragraph, hell, one sentence to know. He had it. He waited until he felt the itch and then lowered his paper, triumphant smile stretching his lips. "I have a lead."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "You're full of shit, Samantha."

Sam's smile was so wide it made his face ache. "Nope. If this isn't a haunting, it should be."

Dean's lip curled again, eloquent expression of disgust. "Cough it up."

"Body part collected as a relic. If it's not a haunting, it should be."

Dean frowned, lunged and grabbed the top of the paper. "What the hell? OP ED?"

Sam snatched his paper back and pridefully rattled it at his brother. "Check it out. Napoleon's -" Dean yanked the paper back down again, reading upside down. And his eyes went wide."

"His DICK?" Blurted Dean. He looked up at Sam, and this time the grimace was a genuine expression of sympathetic pain. "Jesus Christ, Sam, who does that to a guy's schwing?"

Sam blinked. He really hadn't thought about what he'd read. Not until then, at least. He suddenly crossed his legs in sympathy and felt the table jar as Dean must have done the same thing. He glanced down at the op ed piece and swallowed hard. "Uh, yeah. It says here, the priest who gave him last rites got, y'know, a little bit out of line."

"A LITTLE bit?" Horror was clear in Dean's eyes and his brother had dropped his hands to a protective position in his lap. Sam could see Dean's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "So. Spit it out. The rest of it?"

"Yeah, so . . . looks like the . . .uh, relic has been kept in a jar, and sold. Latest owner was this guy in New Jersey who collected military memorabilia."

Dean visibly shuddered. "They pickled his dick."

Sam winced. "I suppose it could have been worse."

"How?"

"Taxidermy?"

Dean closed his eyes and shuddered again, shook like a dog shaking off fleas. "Don't. Just . . . don't go there."

"Yeah, well. I figure . . . if anything's haunted, it's gotta be that."

"I know if it was mine . . . " He shifted, like he was trying to find a more protective pose. "So. It say what this asshole died of? The one who collects pickled dicks?"

"Nope. I guess we'll have to, uh, probe the issue."

"You just had to go there."

"Well," Sam shot him a wincing smile. "Yeah. I guess I did."

"They mention if this dick pickler's got any kids?"

"Dean, he's not the one who, urm, initially acquired this item."

"Cut if offa old Buonaparte, y'mean? And ain't that just a helluva last rite. Oughta call it the last wrong!"

"With you on that one, bro. No, they just say it's part of his estate. I can get into Jersey's computers, see if his records list any next of kin?"

"You won't find any."

Sam glanced up at Dean, who was still hunched over with his hands in his lap. "How d'you figure that?"

"Something like this? It's gonna have some serious bad juju Sam. Probably cursed. STD's maybe."

"Or impotence," Sam agreed.

"Shit, yeah."

The two of them looked at each other for a long minute or two, thinking it through. Sam finally folded his paper. "Hey, what say we call this one a wash."

"I'll help ya with the car."

"And maybe let's go, oh, west. Away from New Jersey."

"I think I've still got Jo's number on my phone. Maybe she'd like a tip for a hunt."

Sam brightened. "Best idea I've heard all day! Give her a call and I'll get started on the car!"

Dean nodded, then reached over and wadded up the New York Times. "And Sam?"

"Already with ya. Loan me a copy of your Enquirer?"

"It's yours, Sammy! All the news that's fit to print."

"Or at least that's fit to read."


End file.
